Page 4 of Escape to Egypt

"Hey, what's wrong?" He asked, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation, his eyes scanning my disheveled form. "Jesus, you look like hell."

I grimaced. “Thanks,” I muttered, leading him to the couch that doubled as my thinking spot and emergency bed for unwanted early morning thoughts.

"Dean..." I started, unsure how to untangle the series of events that had led to my disgrace. "The museum—remember the Vase of Hathor that I told you had disappeared from storage last week? Guess what. Now another artifact has gone missing. Not just missing, either. Stolen. Under my watch."

"Damn, Charlotte," Dean breathed out, raking a hand through his hair again. He’d always reminded me of Hugh Grant, if Hugh Grant were an American software developer, that is.

"And they think you're involved?" His eyebrows arched in disbelief, a silent testament to his faith in me.

"Involved? No, not exactly. More like, responsible. And now I'm under investigation, suspended from the job that means... everything to me." My sniffle sent Dean running to grab the box of tissue from the bathroom. He’d never been good with emotions, his or other people’s. He sat down beside me again and passed me the box.

I plucked a tissue from it and blew my nose loudly while Dean gazed up at the ceiling, shifting uncomfortably.

"You are innocent, right?" He asked when I threw the crumpled wad in the direction of the coffee table.

"Of course!" I shot back, the fierceness in my voice surprising even myself.

"Okay. Then you simply need prove it, that’s all." His assertion was so simple, so Dean.

"Oh, that’s all, Mr. Smarty Pants?" I threw my hands into the air with exasperation. “Now why didn’t I just think of that?”

Dean chuckled, shaking his head as if he were speaking to a frustrated toddler.

“I’m not exactly the dullest tool in the shed, you know,” he said, tapping his temple with his forefinger. “I mean, I despise getting my hands actually dirty, as you know, but I might not have a reputation for being the next Bill Gates in the making for nothing. How about if I offer to help you out. It’s the least I can do, to make up for my, er, past shortcomings. Also, what other choice do you have?”

I stared at him coolly. It was reckless, it was mad—it was my only option.

"Alright, Sherlock," I said, heaving a sigh. "Let's do this."

“Yippee,” he replied, rubbing his hands together and rising from the sofa.

“Then why don't you grab a shower and try your best to look alive," he continued with a smirk. “I’ll stop by my place and pick up my laptop. Meet me in an hour at the diner on 44th?”

I rolled my eyes but was unable to suppress the hint of a smile. "Exactly what every girl wants to hear from her ex-boyfriend. But yes, you’ve got a deal."

"Ex-current-whatever," he corrected playfully with a wink.

Before I could protest, he was gone, leaving a trail of expensive cologne that I was convinced did permanent damage to my nostrils behind him.

***

After a shower that did little to wash away the dread but successfully removed the grime of yesterday, I trudged the few blocks from my building to the diner. The bell above the door tinkled as I entered, and Dean waved from our usual booth, his laptop open and a stack of papers beside it.

"Ah, there she is! Revived and ready for action!" Dean announced with a nod, lifting his steaming mug of coffee to me.

"Hardly," I grumbled, sliding into the worn leather seat across from him. "But I'm here."

The waitress, a kind-faced woman who'd served us through various stages of relationship drama, arrived with plastic-covered menus. I barely glanced at mine before snapping it shut.

"Charlotte Bray, not even looking at the menu? That's a first," Dean teased, his eyes crinkling with mirth.

"Today calls for everything," I said, and when the server came back, I ordered the works—pancakes piled high with whipped cream, crispy bacon, golden hashbrowns, the lot. If I were about to be homeless, I might as well have one last feast.

"Wow, not worried about maintaining your girlish figure anymore, huh?" Dean remarked as my mountain of food arrived along with his plate of eggs and toast.

"Feels appropriate given the circumstances," I muttered between bites of syrup-drenched pancake. "Plus, this might be my last meal before cardboard boxes become my new dining tables."

"Come on, you're not street-bound yet," Dean chided gently. "Glass half full, remember?"

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